


dragonslayers

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Series: nobody's leftovers [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, the calendiles is only sort of there. it's complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 16:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14596584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: "But the truth is, there really isn’t any right thing to say sometimes. Sometimes you just have to leave.”Jenny, Anya, and Tara struggle to figure themselves out beyond the love that's defined them since they came to Sunnydale.





	dragonslayers

Jenny Calendar is alive.

And that should seem like something huge and dizzying, shouldn’t it?

* * *

 

“Mix it,” says Anya, then, “Mix it,” then, “ _Fucking morons_ don’t know how to mix the _fucking batter,_ ” and upends the popcorn all over the coffee table as she reaches, violently, for her beer. Rupert winces a little and slips his arm around Jenny’s shoulder, tugging her away from what looks to be an unpleasant spill.

Rupert smells like cologne and a touch of alcohol. Somewhere along the line, he lost that comforting, soft smell of pressed linen that came from the way he used to iron his shirts. Jenny misses that smell, but she doesn’t want to tell him that, because he looks so devastatingly happy to have her in his arms again. She can’t take that happiness away from him.

“The fuckers didn’t _mix it,_ ” says Anya a little tearfully, “they’re not going to make it to the next round.” She falls back against the couch, defeated.

Anya watches cooking shows like most people watch football, lately. Jenny thinks it’s because Xander did most of the cooking and Anya doesn’t want to admit she misses him, so she settles for aggressively surrounding herself with things that remind her of him and never once mentioning his name. She’s not sure how well that’s going for anyone.

Rupert presses his mouth to Jenny’s neck, playfully, and grins when she looks up at him. He looks at her with that same in-love smile that she’s been seeing since she got back. “Would you like to get out of here in a few?” he says, like Anya’s not on the verge of a total emotional breakdown right next to them.

“I think I wanna see how this show goes,” says Jenny evasively, and turns her attention back to the TV.

* * *

 

Rupert’s not living in his apartment anymore; he sold it back when Buffy was dead. He flinches whenever someone uses the phrase _when Buffy was dead,_ which makes Jenny feel a little guilty when she thinks it, but—Rupert can’t read her thoughts. Small mercies.

Right now, they’re in his hotel room, and they’re probably two buttons, one skirt, and a few more minutes of kissing away from having sex, and Jenny feels absolutely nothing. And she doesn’t like that she feels nothing, because this is the man she loved enough to make her want to live. Like, sure, it was Anya who got Jenny to fight her way back to life, but it was Rupert who made her even consider coming back in the first place.

She thinks about all that time spent studying him across the Magic Box, wanting to know all about him, what he’d become over the last few years. She thinks about how she got a dizzy, breathless rush every time she thought about getting to hold him again. But there’s a hollowness to him that repels her, makes her want to stumble out of the bedroom and never look back.

The thing is, though, Jenny still loves some part of him. She does. When she thinks about the first time she was alive, the way she felt falling in love with him—it’s enough to keep her kissing him now, because she so desperately wants that feeling back.

“I love you,” says Rupert against her collarbone, and finishes with the last two buttons of her blouse, pushing it down her shoulders carelessly. Only a few weeks in and he’s forgotten she was ever dead.

“I love you too,” says Jenny, because she has to. She must have just forgotten how.

* * *

 

Jenny places her hand on the table of the Magic Box and wills it to slip through. Strange how she felt more corporeal when she was a ghost.

“I had to stop by Xander’s place today to pick up some things,” says Anya from next to her, distantly, and Jenny feels the soft, fluttery rush of companionship when she looks up at her friend. She knows she shouldn’t be so happy that Anya’s just as off-balance as she is, but it’s comforting to know that there’s someone else who doesn’t know exactly what they’re doing. “I called ahead and he said he would be out while I was there, to make it easier on him.” She looks up at Jenny, expression impassive, and adds, “You know, I don’t really know if he ever thought about what I wanted. I think he put himself first a lot more than he had a right to.”

Jenny considers this. Then she says, “I think Rupert’s in love with the woman who died,” and _god,_ that hurts to say out loud.

“And you’re not the woman who died?” says Anya, sounding genuinely confused by the concept.

“I don’t know,” says Jenny truthfully. “But I feel like he’s just—” She swallows, hard. “He kisses me like all he wants to do is kiss me,” she says. “And neither of us talk about anything actually substantial, ever, it’s just lots and lots of reunion sex. Like there’s nothing he wants to do but that.”

Anya frowns a little, taking this in. Jenny’s half-expecting her to ask why reunion sex is such a bad thing (Anya _has,_ after all, talked pretty recently and pretty loudly about how she’d really like to get laid some time soon), but then she says, “You know, Giles hasn’t had a serious relationship in the entire time I’ve known him. There was that Olivia thing, plus that one time he hooked up with Ethan again, but I don’t think he’s ever had anything like what he had with you, and I think that that’s really messed him up.” She smiles, a little wobbly. “I know I’ve never had a friend like you,” she says, “because, you know, Hallie and I haven’t really been close since the whole human thing, and that relationship was built on a lot of vengeance and murder anyway, and, and I _know_ I’m messed up. Not having people in your life who you love can really, really mess a person up.”

“Anya,” says Jenny softly, and turns all the way to take Anya’s hands in hers. Anya won’t (can’t?) look at her. “Anya. You’re not messed up.”

“If I was good,” says Anya, “then he wouldn’t have left me.” She sounds near tears. “I don’t even miss him as much as I miss knowing—” Her voice breaks, and she jerks her hands away from Jenny’s to scrub roughly at her face. “I miss knowing that someone loved me,” she said. “I miss knowing that someone wanted me to kiss them for forever.”

Jenny swallows hard. “I miss that too,” she says.

Anya sniffles, finally looking up. “Giles wants that with you, though, doesn’t he?” she asks, sounding half-hopeful, like if she can’t be happy she at least wants Jenny to.

Jenny shakes her head. “He wants someone to kiss,” she says. “And the way I died—I think he thinks his only possible happy ending is with me.”

“That’s stupid,” says Anya decisively. “You should tell him that it’s stupid.”

Jenny thinks about the way Rupert looked as she was leaving his hotel bedroom today, the fragility in his smile. “He’s nearly reached his breaking point,” she says. “I don’t know what’ll happen if I push him any further.”

“Jenny—” Anya looks suddenly very upset by this. “Jenny,” she says. “Jenny, that’s why I stayed with Xander. That’s why I never told him about all the stuff I wanted from him. You can’t do that to Giles or he’ll end up breaking your heart into a million billion pieces and I don’t _want_ your heart broken, I want _his_ heart in pieces on the _floor,_ Jenny, all over the damn floor like fine powder—” And then she really is crying, shoulder-shaking sobs that have her hiding her face in her hands.

Jenny wants to reach out to Anya, but she’s sort of reeling. That _is_ what happened with Xander, isn’t it? Anya shutting herself down because she was just so desperate to keep a half-working relationship functioning in a way that kept both of them kissing.

“But it’s _Rupert,_ ” she says, helplessly, softly, “and I _love_ him.”

* * *

 

A particular moment that Jenny remembers when she looks into Rupert’s eyes is the one and only time they left Sunnydale together. It was only a few hours before a supernatural crisis meant they had to go back home, but they made it to a gas station and bought a lot of candy bars and kissed in the sunlight outside Jenny’s car. She wonders if their relationship was always something that could only sustain itself within a certain time frame, within a certain geographic region, within a certain set of variables.

Rupert is lying on the bed when she comes in, staring up at the ceiling like all he’s been doing is waiting for her to come back. Jenny wants to talk to him about politics or art or science or all the things they used to talk about all those years ago, but the words stick in her throat when he looks up at her with that empty affection, smiling at her with unearned adoration. She represents a part of his past that he lost, a part of his future that he wants. She doesn’t know if she can do that anymore.

“I love you,” she says, and she wishes she meant it all the way. Those first few days after Anya’s almost-wedding, she believed it, lost in being close to him again, but the words have fumbled and faded until she’s not sure who she loves anymore. She barely knows this man. He contains someone she loved a very, very long time ago.

“I love you too,” says Rupert, then, “What’s the matter?”                                                                              

* * *

 

Jenny wants to leave Sunnydale, after, except Anya’s still there and the one concrete thing about this absolute mess is that Jenny absolutely loves Anya, so she drives to Anya’s new apartment. It’s raining, and Anya isn’t home yet, so she slumps against the front door and waits, rain plastering her hair to her face.

There are things she does like about being alive again, like the way rain feels and the way the cold permeates her leather jacket. Even pain is something; it means she’s feeling, and that was something she was deprived of for an intolerably long amount of time. It’s sort of like how people must have felt after color TV was invented, Jenny thinks. Like everything’s just that little bit more real.

Anya comes up with a bag of groceries and sees Jenny, and she gets this horribly sad look on her face that makes Jenny start crying, because shit, Anya really does know her. She feels Anya reach up to hug her very tightly, and then they’re in the warm apartment lobby and Anya’s sitting her down on a couch.

“So,” says Anya. “You and Giles.”

“I think I broke his heart,” says Jenny, and sniffles, not sure whether she’s wiping away tears or rainwater. Both, probably. She was out in the rain for a while.

“You really didn’t,” says Anya. “He hasn’t known you long enough to be heartbroken. Not this you, anyway. He’ll deal.”

“I want to _help_ him—”

“There’s only so much you can do,” says Anya, and the sweetly earnest look in her eyes makes Jenny feel—warm. That’s the simplest way of putting it. “I was with Xander for so long in part because I wanted to believe that some day I’d just magically know the right thing to say, you know? But the truth is, there really isn’t any right thing to say sometimes. Sometimes you just have to leave.”

“I love him so much,” says Jenny, but when she says it, she’s thinking of the Rupert Giles with soft eyes who kissed her nose in the faculty room and held her close in the library.

“You can’t, though,” says Anya, and reaches for Jenny’s hand. “You don’t know him yet.”

“But there’s time,” says Jenny.

“There is,” says Anya. “Now’s not that time.”

* * *

 

Anya has a cat. She hasn’t named it, mostly because it’s an outdoor cat that wanders around in her living room, eats some of the food she puts out for it, and then leaves for weeks on end, but she’s always worried it’ll get eaten by a vampire while it’s out.

“Vampires go for humans,” Jenny reminds her, “and that cat’s scary fast. I don’t think any vampire would be interested in trying to chase it down.”

“Hmm,” says Anya, in a way that means she doesn’t think Jenny knows what she’s talking about, and goes back to baking cupcakes. She’s checked out a bunch of books on cooking from the Sunnydale Memorial Library (everything in this town has _memorial_ tacked on somewhere; it gets depressing real fast), and today her food of choice is Rainbow Cupcakes with Black Frosting. Lots of terrifying dyes involved. Jenny thinks she needs to remind Anya that she’s mortal now.

The doorbell rings. Jenny freezes. She hasn’t seen Rupert since—well—

“That’s not Giles,” says Anya helpfully, and puts down the sugar, crossing the room to open the door. “I think it’s Tara. I asked her to come over.”

This takes Jenny a little by surprise; Anya and Tara aren’t by any means close. “You asked her?”

Tara steps in, holding a small cactus and a bag slung over her shoulder and looking very, very shy. And suddenly Jenny understands why Anya brought Tara into this apartment: there’s the same heavy sadness in Tara’s eyes that Jenny feels in her chest, even though Tara’s giving them both a small smile.

“Hi,” says Jenny, feeling awkward.

“Willow and Tara broke up, recently,” says Anya from next to Tara. “Willow’s getting help. Giles insisted on it. Tara isn’t getting any help, though, so I thought she should come here. Because. You know. None of us are getting help.” With that, she turns and crosses back to the kitchenette, starting again on her cupcakes.

Tara moves past Jenny and places the cactus down on the coffee table. Then she says, “Um, Anya’s using a lot of dye for those cupcakes. There are organic alternatives, you know.”

Jenny thinks she likes Tara. “Do you wanna watch a movie?” she offers. “There might be something good on TV. I don’t know.”

“I think I brought some snacks, actually,” says Tara, and rummages in her bag until she pulls out a small bag of potato chips. “Not a lot, but I was meaning to eat them on the bus over here or something.”

Jenny takes the chips and takes a bite, then laughs a little incredulously. “I like potato chips,” she says. “I’d forgotten.”

It’s such a small, silly thing, but Jenny’s starting to realize that there are so many little nuances to being alive, so many things she’s missed or misplaced or forgotten. Discovering them all again is sweet and wonderful. She likes having the space to do that. She likes that her world no longer condenses to Rupert.

Tara smiles a little like she gets what Jenny’s thinking, then sits down on the couch, bag still on her lap. “TV sounds nice,” she adds. “And you can finish off those potato chips. I can always go get more.”

* * *

 

Jenny and Anya and Tara start doing normal things like going shopping, and going to the park to have a picnic, and going to the animal shelter on pet adoption day. That last one’s mostly Jenny and Tara; Anya seems sort of resentful about even the concept of getting a pet that isn’t her weird little outdoor cat, and glares at all the kittens for a few minutes until Jenny points out that Anya’s not obliged to adopt a cat just by virtue of them being there.

“I know _that,”_ says Anya, glowering, “but now I _want_ to, and it’s your fault!”

When Jenny was alive the first time around, she liked cats more than dogs—all that elegant grace and the reproachful way they looked at you and how _cute_ kittens were. But this time around, she settles herself on the floor with a large dog who’s trying to get to the sandwich in her bag.

“Hi,” she says, tapping the dog’s shoulder like he’s a person. “Hey. That’s kinda mine. Tara made it for me.”

“I think he likes you,” Tara observes.

“Hmm,” says Jenny, trying to sound cool and detached.

“No,” says Anya, swooping in. “No, no, absolutely not, we are _not_ getting _any_ dog who’s going to scare my kitty away whenever it shows up.”

“What’s your cat’s name?” Tara asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“It’s a cat,” says Anya to Tara. “It names itself.”

“I like this dog,” says Jenny, at first to be difficult but then a little bit true. “I could use a dog. Don’t they send puppies around to high schools to relieve stress in some parts of the country?”

“I’ve literally never heard of that happening,” says Anya.

“They _could_ send puppies around to high school to relieve stress,” says Jenny, “and I want a dog.”

“I’m kicking you out of the apartment,” says Anya, and it’s the not-at-all-serious way she says it that makes a smile spread across both of their faces. Like not even Jenny getting a dog would make Anya kick Jenny out of the apartment. Like Jenny and Anya living together is a foregone, comforting certainty, at least for as long as they both need it.

“I hate you,” says Jenny to Anya, and scratches the dog’s shoulders. He licks her face very solemnly, then goes back to trying to get at the sandwich.

“I sup _pose,_ ” says Anya, “after all we’ve been through, you deserve a pet of some sort.”

“Well, thank you for granting me permission,” says Jenny dryly.

Anya sits down next to Jenny and looks at the dog with a frown. “He kinda reminds me of Oz,” she says. “I didn’t know the guy that well, but the few times I saw him—yeah. That’s an Oz dog.”

“Willow talked about Oz, sometimes,” says Tara, in a too-high voice. The smile on her face has become a bit plastic. “She said—”

Jenny tugs at Tara’s hand, then places it on the dog’s back. Tara lets out this shuddering breath and sits down, focusing in on the dog’s brown-and-white coat. Then she says, “I can see why they’d bring around puppies to high school,” and leans a little on Jenny.

“What happened with Willow?” Jenny asks.

“She erased my mind when she decided I wasn’t agreeing enough with her,” says Tara.

Jenny wishes she could go back to the moment before she knew that that was what Willow Rosenberg had become. The sweet, shy, eager little girl with the big smile, the one who’d brought her flowers to brighten up the room and brought in extra credit work even though she was acing the class— “God,” she says. “When did the people I love become such a damn mess?”

Tara shrugs, head still on Jenny’s shoulder. “I like this dog,” she says. “He’s a good listener.”

Jenny laughs a little wetly and tucks her arm around Tara. Anya throws up her arms in mock exasperation ( _fine,_ fine, do what you want, see if I care) and sits down next to the both of them, pulling out a few dog treats from her own bag. “Got them up front,” she says off Jenny and Tara’s startled looks, then, “Shut up,” then, “I’m naming him Saint George.”

“Saint George?” says Jenny.

“He looks like a dragon-slayer of a dog,” says Anya, and bumps Jenny’s shoulder. Saint George eats four treats in one go and then licks Anya’s nose.

* * *

 

So now Jenny has a live-in best friend, another friend who might as well be living-in, and a dog. Which feels a lot better than one hotel-room boyfriend and no dog, all things considered. They haven’t seen the Scoobies in a while, which in its own way is also nice, because Jenny gets the sense that seeing the Scoobies would mean fielding a lot of questions about how, exactly, Jenny thought it was okay to leave Giles, who had missed her for so long and loved her so much. Plus, the whole world-saving thing is kind of a drain. She likes taking it slow.

Anya still has her job at the Magic Box, though the Scoobies don’t stop by all that often. She’s made Jenny and Tara full-time employees, which is actually pretty fun. Though they do get customers, the shop isn’t by any means crowded, so most of the day is spent playing fetch with Saint George, who has a surprising amount of common sense for a dog. He hasn’t _once_ run into a shelf.

“He’s very well-behaved,” says Anya approvingly, “and dogs bring in more customers. We’ve turned a tidy profit over the last few weeks, and I attribute that to him.”

“Don’t let Saint George take all the credit,” says Jenny, and squeezes Anya’s shoulder as she crosses to help a customer with a purchase. “You’re kind of incredible at this.”

Anya really does have a knack for being a businesswoman. She’s gotten incredible at predicting what products will sell and what relics they can afford to toss and stuff like that, and she’s getting a _lot_ better at talking to customers now that no one’s telling her she needs to act human. She’s got an easy, cheerful look in her eyes these days, and that’s probably why there’s a girl who’s come back three days in a row just to talk shyly to Anya about music and books and sapphic poetry.

“Should we tell her?” says Jenny, stepping over to Tara.

“She’ll figure it out,” says Tara, who looks like she wants to start giggling.

“Yes, I _do_ like movies!” says Anya brightly, looking delighted. “I love movies. And you like movies too?”

“Oh, god, that poor girl,” says Jenny, and hides her face in Tara’s shoulder. Tara squeaks a little, pressing her hands to her face and trying her best not to laugh.

“I, I love movies,” says the girl, who has big eyes and a shy smile. “Would you like to go to one with me?”

Anya seems taken aback by the question, but she’s still smiling too. “I’d like that, yes,” she says, “though my hours are a bit busy. Why don’t you stop by my apartment sometime instead and we can have sex instead? It won’t take as long as a movie, and it won’t cost nearly as much either.”

Tara dissolves into hysterical laughter. Jenny raises her head to swat Tara’s shoulder.

The girl starts laughing too, but in a delighted sort of way that bodes very well for Anya. “You’re, like, the most forward person I’ve ever met!” she says.

“Saves time,” says Anya, who looks genuinely happy. “Though I’m still very happy to go to a movie with you.”

Anya and the girl start setting a date, and Jenny turns back to a very amused Tara. “Stop that,” she says, not all that seriously.

“I can’t help it!” Tara giggles. “She’s just—she knows what she wants and she goes for it.”

“It’s admirable, really,” says Jenny, looking back over at Anya, who’s scrawling her number on the girl’s arm.

The bell on the door rings, and Jenny turns, her welcome-to-the-Magic-Box smile bright and warm. It fades immediately when she sees who’s standing there.

“Jenny,” says Rupert awkwardly, a little sadly. He looks heavier, this time around, hollow in a way that isn’t covered up by happiness.

“Hey,” says Jenny. She feels Tara’s protective hand on her shoulder, hears Anya’s footsteps as she crosses to stand next to them.

Rupert nods a little stiffly, then says, “Anya, there’s still some paperwork I need to go over with you, and, and you haven’t sent me my cut of the profit—”

“Because you’re a stupid jerk who made Jenny cry,” says Anya in this scary sort of voice that sounds less petulant-child and more centuries-old-vengeance demon. “And I don’t pay those kinds of people.”

Jenny winces a little. “Anya,” she says, “legally, he is still a part of this business.”

“He can sell his part of this business back to me, though,” says Anya, looking blackly up at Rupert. It isn’t at all a request.

Something hits Jenny, then, something she doesn’t really like. Telling herself she’s okay because she hasn’t seen Rupert, hasn’t even talked to him since that night—isn’t that still just stubbornly refusing to address the elephant in the room? “Rupert,” she says, lightly shaking Tara’s hand off her shoulder, “I’d like to grab a coffee with you.”

“What?” says Rupert.

“What?” says Anya.

“She said she’d like to grab a coffee with him,” says Tara, who seems to at least sort of understand what Jenny’s trying to do. Jenny reaches back over and pulls Tara into a quick hug. She likes this kid. She really does.

“I’d like a coffee,” says Rupert, sort of to himself. “Or maybe tea.”

Jenny pulls back and smooths down Tara’s hair, then turns to Anya. “I’ll be right back, okay?” she says.

“Don’t get back together with him,” says Anya fiercely.

“Not planning on it,” says Jenny, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rupert’s face fall. “But this is still a conversation we need to have."

* * *

“I don’t understand it,” says Rupert as soon as they’re sitting at a table together.

“Don’t understand what?” Jenny prompts him.

Rupert swallows hard, then says, “We love each other. Shouldn’t it be that simple?”

Jenny looks at Rupert and finds herself wondering, with a painful twist, what it’d have been like if they’d gotten to grow together. Maybe they’d have ended up growing apart anyway, but—maybe they wouldn’t. And it’s that possibility that really stings. “We haven’t seen each other in years,” she says, “we can’t just jump into being in love when I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Rupert looks like he’s been slapped in the face. “I’m not the man you love,” he says, more a terrified question than a statement.

Jenny frowns a little. “I don’t think it’s that simple,” she says. “I just—I feel like you want to pick up where we left off, and I-I wanna know what I missed.” She tries to smile, but can’t manage it. “Like—what were you up to all these years? What changed? What didn’t?”

Rupert looks blankly up at her, then says, “I was a Watcher all these years, Jenny. I never—you were the first—the only—”

Back when they were first falling in love, that would have made Jenny feel breathlessly special. But she’s wiser, more worn, so she leans across the table to place her hand very briefly over his. When she pulls back, she sees ( _finally_ ) a tired, sad resignation in his eyes, and that’s enough to make her say, “Maybe we’ll get it right some other time.”

“And that’s—that’s it, then,” says Rupert. His voice catches.

Jenny nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Because I have enough self-respect not to get with a guy who doesn’t know what he wants.”

So that’s it, then. That’s all.

* * *

 

Jenny, exhausted from her coffee with Rupert, gets home, sits quietly down on the sofa, and rests her head on Anya’s shoulder. They watch movies until about two in the morning, at which point they get a phone call from Tara, who’s crying. “They’re kicking me out,” she manages between sobs, “I’m living in a shitty apartment and I can’t even pay the fucking rent,” and they know it’s serious because Tara only ever swears when she’s sad. Never angry—always sad.

So Jenny and Anya and Saint George all pile into Anya’s kinda crappy car, and Anya, looking like she’s about to fall asleep behind the wheel, starts to drive.

“I hate everything lately,” says Anya. “You know, when I saw you and Giles looking at each other at my wedding, I was like, _there’s a good happy ending for someone, at least._ ”

“Happy endings are a myth made to sell cards,” says Jenny, who’s sharing a bag of baby carrots with Saint George.

“You’re so dramatic sometimes,” says Anya. “Never change.” She reaches over with one hand to pat Saint George’s back (he licks her hand) and adds, “And Willow—I liked Willow, kind of. Xander liked Willow, so I liked her. You know. Kind of. But I didn’t ever think she’d do something like that to Tara.”

“Or that the rest of them would stand by her,” says Jenny distantly. Then, “Do you think that maybe we’re the leftovers? That that’s why I couldn’t make things work with Rupert?”

“I think you haven’t had enough sleep or enough time to really start thinking about why things with Giles didn’t work,” says Anya. Belatedly, she adds, “And I think I need to get home and sleep too after we bring Tara back to our place, because I still have that movie date with Claire.”

“Cute Claire from the Magic Box?” says Jenny with interest.

Anya shrugs in a way that’s trying to be nonchalant, but a small smile flits across her face.

“And you like her?”

“I told her I’m just getting out of a serious relationship,” says Anya, “and that I think she’s too cute and friendly to be a rebound thing, so she and I are just friends for now. We did have sex a few times, though. Friends have sex sometimes.”

“Seems reasonable,” says Jenny, mouth twitching. Then she says, “I think Rupert and I started dating too fast.”

“You mean when you came back—”

“I mean originally,” says Jenny. “I just—he was cute, and I thought it could be a casual thing, so I jumped in with the full expectation of getting burned. One of those classic opposites-attract sort of things, because—” She laughs a little bitterly. “I was just so sure we wouldn’t be able to make it work all that long,” she said. “And I was lonely, and he was there.”

Anya pulls the car to a stop outside Tara’s apartment, and they see Tara standing there with maybe two boxes. Something about that makes Jenny’s heart twist in her chest; this girl’s been living in Sunnydale for nearly three years, and all the stuff she owns can fit into two boxes. She wonders how much of Tara’s stuff ended up being Willow’s.

“That really sucks,” says Anya.

“Yeah,” says Jenny. “I think we’d have been really awesome friends if I’d done things right.”

“You still would have ended up dead, though,” Anya points out. “And Giles would still be an idiot. So really, nothing would have changed—” and then she’s cut off because Jenny’s giving her this big hug and trying not to start messy-crying all over her shoulder. “It’s okay, Jenny,” says Anya, and pats Jenny’s head. Jenny laughs a little. “It’s okay.”

Tara crosses over to the car with her two boxes and puts them both in the back. She’s very clearly been crying. “I don’t know how to do this,” she says. “I don’t know how to be all by myself anymore.”

“It’s cool,” says Anya. “Neither does Jenny. She’s like super bad at it.”

“You suck,” says Jenny, sniffling and smiling, and pulls herself back up just as Saint George clambers through the seats to go sit with Tara. That dog seems to have a sort of sixth sense for where he’s needed. Granted, everyone in the car’s kind of a mess right now, but still.

Tara buries her face in Saint George’s fur for a moment, and then starts talking to him in a soft, solemn voice that Jenny can’t make out. She turns back to Anya instead. “Where are we going?” she asks.

“We are going to get burgers,” says Anya. “Then we’re going home.”

Tara nods. Then she says, “I wanna throw up, though.”

“Do you want me to pull over?”

“It’s more of,” Tara waves a hand, resting her head against Saint George’s, “a feeling. Not really something I’m following through on.”

“What happened with the landlord?” Jenny asks.

Tara sighs. Then she says, “He upped the rent when he learned I’d gotten a steady job.”

“Shit,” says Jenny.

“That’s kind of fucked up,” says Anya, and reaches back over her shoulder to squeeze Tara’s hand. “But hey, you can live with us in our teensy apartment!”

“I don’t know about that,” says Jenny, frowning. Off Anya’s look, she hastily clarifies, “Of course I don’t mean Tara can’t live with us, I just mean—two people and a dog in a one-bedroom apartment was already kind of a stretch, but three people’s going to be way too much to handle.”

“Hmm,” says Anya, in her Thoughtful-Businesswoman voice that means she’s got a very good idea and she’s about to start imparting it. “I think we should start a fundraiser.”

“A _fundraiser,_ ” says Tara a little doubtfully.

“Yes!” Anya’s beaming, now. “One hundred percent of all proceeds for the next two weeks go towards us all getting some kind of an actual house, with, like, bedrooms and things, and maybe a nice backyard so Saint George can run around and chase squirrels. It’s a completely foolproof plan.”

But Jenny’s frowning, all of a sudden. Much as she loves the Magic Box, there’s something she really hates about them all staying tethered to Sunnydale, a place that broke Anya’s heart, warped Tara’s mind, and quite literally killed Jenny. “No,” she says. “No, I have a better idea.”

* * *

 

“ _Moving the Magic Box to San Francisco?_ ” says Xander, bursting into the store when Jenny’s polishing orbs. “You’ve _gotta_ be kidding me, Anya. This is a _nasty_ stunt to pull. This was Giles’s place way before yours—”

Anya looks up at Xander, cold and quiet, and says, “You haven’t spoken to me in nearly two months, Xander. Is this what it takes for you to finally check in?”

“So _that’s_ why you’re doing this, huh?” Xander demands. “Out of spite? You know how cut up Giles is already about—” here he gestures to Jenny like he can’t even look at her, “and now here you are pulling this shit? That’s low even for you, Anya—”

“ _Hey,_ ” says Jenny loudly. This startles Xander so much that he steps back into a display and nearly sends it crashing down to the ground (he would have, too, if Tara hadn’t been quick enough to steady it). “You wanna tell us more about the girl you haven’t checked up on in two months? You feel like telling us what she’s thinking when you never bothered to listen?”

Xander falters, mouth trembling. Then he says, “Ahn, I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you,” says Anya primly, and goes back to writing shipping orders.

“I didn’t want to hurt you—”

“You wouldn’t have pulled away so completely if you didn't,” says Anya.

“You dropped off the goddamn face of the earth!” Xander snaps. “You didn’t let me— I gave you all the space you needed, but you never came back, and—” His voice breaks. “I love you,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I—Anya, I just wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t want to be with someone who’d propose to me at the end of the world and not follow through,” says Anya. “That isn’t brave and it isn’t fair to either of us.” She doesn’t sound as angry, now. Just resigned, and sort of tired.

“You can leave now, Xander,” says Jenny.

“Like I’m going to listen to _you,_ ” says Xander, looking at her with cold, hard eyes, and that’s when Jenny knows for certain that the only worth she holds to the Scoobies, now, is the worth she once held to Giles. “He’s drinking, you know,” Xander adds, “won’t talk to anyone but Buffy, and even that’s a toss-up most of the time.”

“I can’t help him,” says Jenny, and suddenly it’s Buffy’s junior year all over again. Straight face, biting her lip to keep from saying something she’ll regret or bursting into tears or both. “I can’t be the magical solution to his problems.”

“That’s why you came _back,_ ” says Xander fiercely. “That’s why you’re here now. He deserves someone in his life—”

All of a sudden, Tara’s got this quietly furious look in her eyes as she steps around the display she’s been holding steady, looking up at Xander with such a terrifying expression that he actually takes a step back. “No one,” she says, “is entitled to any of us, Xander. We’re not someone’s prize, and we’re not anyone’s leftovers. Do you understand that?”

And Jenny thinks something about that resonates with Xander, because all of a sudden he looks almost guilty. “Giles wanted me to come talk you out of this,” he said. “He didn’t say it, but I know he wants you to stay.” That part’s mostly for Jenny. “And I know I want you to stay.” That part’s definitely for Anya.

“It’s not your choice to make,” says Jenny.

Xander nods, then nods again, off-balance and wobbly like he’s a bobble-head doll, and then he turns around and half-stumbles out of the Magic Box. Jenny watches him go with a twisting feeling in her stomach, and then she presses her hand to her mouth and utters a single choked sob.

“Shit,” says Tara quietly.

“I wish I remembered how to be vengeful,” says Anya, distant and dispassionate. “I used to murder people in their beds for less than what he did to me, you know, and I used to love it, but I have nightmares about it now. I wish I could just step back into being—being some kind of a monster. Things were so much easier then.”

“Monsters don’t love,” says Tara.

“Double-edged sword,” says Jenny.

* * *

 

It’s worse when Willow comes around. They’ve nearly packed up the Magic Box when she shows up, looking sweet and unassuming and utterly heartbroken. If this was a daytime TV show, Jenny thinks, the viewers would probably be on Willow’s side, because Tara’s face is hard as stone.

“Tara,” says Willow. Her voice breaks, her eyes full of tears. “Baby, please. Please come back to me.”

Tara’s mouth trembles and her hands shake. Jenny wants to step up in the way she did for Anya, but she still doesn’t know Tara well enough to know how to even begin to help.

“Tara, baby, we were happy,” says Willow, and sniffles. “We were so happy, just—”

“You can’t do that,” says Tara. “I decide whether or not I was happy. Not you.”

Willow looks helplessly up at her, sniffling, and says, “I just wanted us to be happy. I just wanted that. Don’t you want that too?”

 _Holy fucking shit,_ Jenny thinks, _Willow went off the deep end while I was gone._ God, if Rupert let this happen, she’s _glad_ they’re not anywhere near each other anymore.

Tara’s looking at Willow with this half-sad expression. “You know I didn’t love the magic in you, Willow,” she says. “I loved the way you used it. I loved the way you took so much delight in learning and growing and being happy, and I loved the way you looked at the world. I loved you so much, and you took my love and you twisted it to breaking.”

“Tara—”

“You told me to shut up,” says Tara. “So many people have told me to shut up. You were the first person I trusted to listen, and you silenced me. Do you know what that does to a person? Do you know how scared I was to know the one person I trusted could break me so completely?”

Willow’s crying now, real tears that have her shaking where she stands. “I know I messed up,” she sobs. “I just want to _fix_ it!”

“Willow,” says Tara. “If anyone decides whether we’re fixed, it’s me.”

Maybe it’s something of a defense mechanism, but Jenny’s already thinking about the plane ride out of Sunnydale, wondering if Saint George will be okay in an aircraft carrier. He’s a smart dog, she thinks. He’ll be okay if they give him that squeaky toy he really likes.

Willow falls against the wall, sobbing. “I can’t lose you,” she’s saying. “I don’t know who I am without you.”

“You’re smart, Willow,” says Tara, not unkindly. “You’ll figure it out.” She steps around Anya, who’s frozen in this half-afraid, tense position behind the register, holding onto a fistful of money like it’s a lifeline, and she crosses the room to stand next to Jenny. “But right now I think I need to ask you to leave, and I think you need to be able to respect that.”

“I _can’t_ find myself again without you _—_ ”

“I did,” says Tara, “and I’m the one we both thought wasn’t brave enough, so I think you can too.”

Willow looks up at Tara with this last-ditch, desperate smile, like she thinks maybe Tara’ll change her mind if she makes her face soft enough, makes herself vulnerable. There’s this thing Jenny heard Rupert say once, long ago, about how some of the people who cause lasting harm very often believe that they’re doing the exact right thing, about how those people are the ones that are hardest to dissuade and fend off.

“Willow,” says Jenny, and pulls out her teacher voice, the one she used to use on students who wouldn’t listen. “Back off.”

Willow’s eyes glint, and Jenny sees something old and dangerous buried behind the anguish. Then she turns and leaves.

Immediately after she’s gone, Tara collapses inward, sobbing so violently that she can no longer stand. Anya catches her awkwardly, pulling her into a clumsy hug, and Jenny all but runs over to join them, pulling Tara close.

“I love her so much,” Tara sobs. “So much. I want it to _stop._ ”

“I know,” says Anya, her voice shaking. “But we’re going to be okay.”

* * *

Rupert is the last one to show up in their lives, and he barely makes it. He shows up the night before they’re slated to leave, buzzing their apartment, and Jenny debates whether to let him in before deciding, well, this is probably her thing to deal with, so she should go and deal with it. She pulls herself up from the air mattress on the living room floor and heads down three flights of stairs in a bathrobe and slippers, lugging Saint George in her arms, because when push comes to shove he really is her dog. He’s occupying himself with chewing at her bathrobe. It’s weirdly comforting.

Rupert looks a little surprised that she even came down. He’s unshaven, bleary-eyed, wearing pajamas himself, and he’s done a piss-poor job of parking his car outside.

“You look like shit,” says Jenny bluntly. She’s had enough of old lovers to last a lifetime, even though none of them have been hers up to this point.

“Jenny,” says Rupert. “I just wanted to say—good luck. Wherever you’re going.”

And just like that, Jenny knows they’re going to find each other again. She does. Because Rupert looks tired and worn, but he _gets_ it.  _Took you long enough,_ she wants to say, but she’s just so wrung-out and sad that she puts down Saint George and hugs Rupert a little awkwardly. Somehow, even though they don’t really fit together anymore, she feels closer to him than she has for a very, very long time. “I love you,” she says, and means it all the way this time.

“I love you too,” says Rupert. His voice catches as they look at each other.

Jenny smiles a little. “Guess the guy I loved isn’t all gone,” she says, and lets her forehead fall to rest against his, just for a moment.

“Not gone,” says Rupert, “just a bit lost. And you’re right. I won’t find the better parts of myself if I assume it’s your job to help me.”

“Yeah,” says Jenny. “I’m gonna miss this fucked-up town, a little.”

“I’ll visit,” says Rupert. “In a month or two.”

“I like that.” Jenny smooths down the collar of Rupert’s pajama shirt. The top he’s wearing is one she remembers, but the bottoms aren’t, and something about that makes her feel strangely comforted. Some things change, some things stay the same. _C’est la vie,_ as the French say. “I think at least a few months would be good for both of us,” she says. “I think we both need time.”

“I do too,” says Rupert. “Frankly, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m quite a mess.”

That makes Jenny laugh. “Damn straight,” she says. “Okay. I need to go up and get some sleep. I have a flight tomorrow.”

“All right,” says Rupert.

But they stay in each other’s arms for a few moments more, because the soft warmth of a long-forgotten connection is something that’s damn hard to walk away from. It’s the right call to leave Sunnydale, she knows, for herself and Anya and Tara alike, because she and Rupert still don’t really know how to love each other the right way. They need to figure themselves out before they can fall in love again.

“Maybe I’ll ask you out in a few months,” says Rupert.

“Maybe I’ll say yes,” says Jenny, and pulls away, letting her hands drop. She picks up Saint George and heads back up to her tiny home, with Anya asleep in the bedroom and Tara asleep on the couch. He stands there, watching her go.

* * *

 

Anya snores on the plane. Tara puts in headphones and pretends she isn’t annoyed, but her mouth does this little twitchy thing every time Anya snorts. Jenny, who may or may not have been in the midst of a vaguely explicit dream involving Rupert before being woken by Anya, is much less subtle.

“Anya,” she says. “ _Anya._ ”

“Shh,” says Tara, taking out her headphones, even though it’s clear she agrees with the sentiment. “She’s had a rough few days, she needs her sleep.”

“We all need sleep!” says Jenny indignantly. “And when your ex-boyfriend’s feeding _you_ chocolate-covered strawberries in your dream—”

“Lesbian,” says Tara.

“—then you can talk to me about a rough few days—oh, yeah, lesbian. Gotta stop mixing my comparisons.” Jenny lies back in her chair, still a little annoyed about the interruption. Then she says, “You think we’ll ever really see them again?”

Tara shrugs a little. “I know you and me and Anya are all going to see each other,” she says, and she has this little smile on her face when she says it. “That’s a pretty good deal, all things considered.”

Jenny considers this. Then she says, “I hope Anya’s apartment cat does okay while we’re gone.”

Tara starts giggling. “You hypocrite,” she says, “you always gave Anya so much grief about worrying about that cat, and now it’s _you_ who’s worried—”

“I’m just _saying—_ ”

Anya snorts again, then jerks awake, a half-terrified look in her eyes. “We’re flying?” she says uneasily. “I don’t like—I mean, we’re so high up, what if something—”

Jenny reaches over and takes Anya’s hand in hers. Now seems like the time to say something appropriately sentimental, one that’ll make Anya smile, but all she can come up with is, “We’re gonna be fine, probably.”

And for some reason, Anya relaxes at this. “I like _probably,_ ” she says. “Means there’s room for different outcomes. Depending on finality always seems to get me hurt as of late.”

Jenny thinks about how there’s a possibility Rupert might visit her in a year or so, a changed man, and sweep her off her feet and into the happy ending they both want deep down. She thinks about how there’s a possibility he might visit her in one week with that desperate, determinedly happy look in his eyes and not listen to a word she has to say unless it’s _I love you_. She thinks about how there always are a few loose threads in any ending, no matter how neatly one tries to wrap things up.

“I think that’s a good philosophy,” she says.


End file.
